The Never-ending Fight (Superman Elseworlds)
by Les Bonser
Summary: What if....Superman's birthing matrix malfunctioned and he grew up as a she?


# "The Never Ending Fight"

An alternate Superman story (in the genre of DC Comic's "Elseworlds" stories)

By Les Bonser

The following is a work of fiction. It is based on characters that are trademarks and copyrighted by DC Comics. This story is for the non-commercial private enjoyment of the author and his friends. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

### Prologue

Clara Kent stood in front of the bus station, looking up at the Daily Planet sign atop the building across the street. When she arrived to attend school, she had stood in almost this exact same spot almost four years earlier and had looked at the exact same sign. Like the Empire State Building in New York and the Capital Building in Washington, the Daily Planet Building in Metropolis was a landmark known around the world.

The Daily Planet Building now also housed the offices of Newstime magazine. And that was why Clara was here. Freshly graduated from journalism school at Metropolis State University, she had an appointment in twenty minutes for her first real job. Although she had worked as a reporter on student newspapers, first at Smallville High and then at MSU, this was a chance for her first "real" reporting job.

* * *

### Part One

It was as a teenager that Clara first realized that she was different than everyone else. In moments of weakness, usually late at night when she couldn't sleep, she admitted privately to herself that she had known all along that she was different.

It wasn't that she was from the farm and lots of the other kids at Smallville High lived in town. It wasn't that she had matured later than the other girls. It wasn't that she was considered a tomboy and seemed to have no interest in boys. None of that mattered.

Something else, deep down, seemed to be different about her. Her mother has shrugged off the suggestion, telling Clara that all teenagers felt that way. It had taken a near tragedy, but her parents both finally admitted, to Clara and to themselves, that she was different. It was during harvest, shortly before her fifteenth birthday.

She had been working in the field with her father. Jonathan Kent was a hard working man of the earth, just like this father before him, and his father's father before that. He had inherited the farm as a young man when his father had retired and along with his wife, Martha, had continued the Kent family tradition. All his life, Jonathan's father had instilled in him the idea that a farmer was only the caretaker of the land, not the owner. Jonathan passed that ideal to his only child, his daughter, Clara.

It was late in the season and the frost would begin in another couple of weeks. Between her other chores and school, Clara didn't have much time to help her father finish bringing in the harvest. But she helped as much as she could, so, like other weekends before it, she was driving the truck along side the tractor as her father drove up and down the field.

Behind the tractor, the harvester pulled the soybeans from the vines, shelled them, and blew them up into the back of the truck. The truck was near full, and Jonathan looked back at his daughter. With one hand on the tractor's steering wheel, he used the other to motion for her that they would make one more pass down the field.

Just then, the tractor hit a small sinkhole in the field and tilted sharply as the right rear wheel sank into the ground. Watching in horror as her father was pitched from his seat high atop the tractor, Clara slammed the brakes of the truck.

"Pa!" she yelled. She threw open the door and jumped out.

The tractor has stopped by itself. Without an operator's foot on the gas pedal, the tractor's engine slowed to an idle. The soft ground near the sinkhole prevented the tractor from moving forward.

Clara ran around the side of the harvester. Her father lay in the dirt, the wheel of the tractor crushing his legs. In a split second, Clara could see that her father was awake, trashing in pain.

"Get help," her father said through gritted teeth.

Without really thinking, Clara ran up to her father. "Go, Clara, get help," he said again, this time weaker.

Clara glanced up and looked across the field. Her uncle Matthew was working on the other side of the Kent farm. Her mother, in the farm house, was even further away. It would take her minutes to get there and minutes to get back with help.

Instead of turning and running back to the truck, Clara grabbed the axle of the tractor and lifted it entirely off the ground. It took a moment for this to register with her father, but when it did, he pulled himself away from the tractor with his arms. Only when her father was clear of the tractor's wheel did Clara put it down. By then, her father had passed out from the pain.

She picked him up and carried him to the truck and drove into town as fast as she dared.

The doctor that tended to her father's legs said he was lucky. One of the bones in his left leg was broken, but would heal in time. The other leg was only badly bruised.

"It was a good thing your daughter was with you, Jon," Doc Hayes said.

"Yes," Jonathan Kent replied.

"Also a good thing that the recent rains made the ground soft enough that she was able to dig you out from under than wheel."

"Yeah," Kent replied. He had been unconscious from the shock of the accident and the pain of his injuries. He didn't remember much about being brought to the town hospital, even less about what his daughter had told the doctor about the accident. She didn't tell him, Jonathan thought. Or did I image it?

The doctor let him go home two days later. One leg was in a cast up to his hip and the other was swollen and bruised.

"You rest now, dear," Martha said.

"Yes, Pa," Clara added.

Before he could rest, there was something that Jonathan had to settle in his own mind. "Clara?"

"Yes, Pa."

"What with being in the hospital and all, I haven't had the chance to thank you."

"I'm just glad you're going to be okay," Clara said.

"Yes," Martha said, "Thank the Lord you're going to be alright."

"Well," Jonathan began, "If you hadn't lifted that tractor wheel..." Clara stood at the foot of her father's bed, unable to say anything.

"Lifted the tractor?" Martha said. "Now, Jonathan Kent, you hush. You need to sleep. Enough of this nonsense."

"No, Martha," Jonathan said. "I slept for two days in the hospital. It's time we faced the truth. We've known it every since we found her in that field. Our daughter is special. Lifting that tractor off my legs proves it."

Martha was silent for a moment and then turned to her only daughter, the daughter she loved more than life itself. "You lifted the tractor?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, honey," Martha said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She took her husband's hand into her own. "We should have told you sooner."

Clara sat in a chair beside the bed and her parents told her the story. She already knew that she had been adopted, but this was the first time her parents told her about exactly how she became their daughter.

* * *

Jonathan Kent stood on the porch of the farm house. It was late fall and the harvest was complete. It had been a good year and he was finally able to rest. He liked to stand here and watch the sunset. Sometimes, like this night, he would stand here for hours, watching the stars appear in the night sky.

His wife, Martha, soon joined him and stood beside him. There, in the silence of the night, they both watched the stars.

A bit of light burst across the sky. "Look," Martha said, "A shooting star."

"Yeah," Jonathan said. "Did you make a wish?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"You're not supposed to say it," Martha said, "It won't come true then."

"Tell me," Jonathan said, taking his wife into his arms. Although they had been married for almost eight years, he still thrilled to the thought that she had married him. He considered himself the happiest man in Kansas. Martha had been, at least in his humble opinion, the prettiest girl in school. Never in his life had he been more nervous then when he asked for her hand. Never in his life had he been more happy than when she said "Yes."

"Well," Martha said, a shy smile growing on her face. "I was wishing for something for both of us."

"What?"

"A baby."

"You're pregnant?" Jonathan thought his heart would leap out of his chest.

"No." Martha's voice was low and sad.

Jonathan held her tight. He knew how much Martha wanted a child. They had tried to conceive a child since their wedding night, but it had just never happened. Both had been to the doctor. Neither seemed to have anything wrong, at least physically. The doctor was unable to explain it.

"We could have a little fun trying again," Jonathan said, trying to lighten his wife's mood.

"I don't know," she said, turning away from him. She looked at the stars again. Another shooting star streaked across the sky. Must be a meteor shower, she thought to herself.

Jonathan didn't know what to say. He stood behind his wife and held her in his arms. Together they watched the night sky. The next shooting star I see, Jonathan thought to himself, I'm going to wish for a baby too. Maybe then it'll happen.

Just then, they both heard thunder. Jonathan let go of Martha and walked down the steps. As he stood in the yard, he looked to the sky. There wasn't a cloud anywhere to be seen. The sky was a milky blanket of stars. "That's funny," he said, "There are no clouds. Where was that thunder coming from?"

"It's probably just a jet," she said.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he said, turning to climb the stairs back onto the porch.

A slight rumble shock the ground and they both heard what sounded like more thunder. A light seemed to fill the sky on the other side of the house. Johathon and Martha both ran around the house and looked out into the field beyond. There was a small plume of dust rising from the edge of the field. The dust was barely visible in the dark, but seemed to be coming from the corn field near the utility road.

"I'll bet that's a meteorite," Jonathan yelled, headed for the truck.

"You can't just drive out there," Martha said.

"Why not?" he said. "It's on my farm." He climbed into the truck and started the engine.

"It could be dangerous. It might be radioactive."

"Meteorites are nothing more than chunks of iron," he said. "Come on."

Martha reluctantly climbed into passenger side of the vehicle. Jonathan drove off into the night. It only took a couple of minutes to get to the other side of the field.

There was a large hole in the ground, like a deep furrow, from where the meteorite had slammed into the earth. It came to a rest up against the irrigation culvert. By now, the dust had settled.

As Jonathan pulled off the road, he aimed the truck's headlights at the hole. He stopped the truck and got out. Martha got out from her side. They both slowly walked forward, peering into the shallow hole.

The meteorite was smooth and shining. Although Martha was scared, and stopped walking toward it, Johathon continued forward. He held his hands out in front of him; there was no heat from the meteorite. He walked right up to it. He saw that it was almost perfectly round in shape and didn't seem to be blackened by the heat of the atmospheric reentry.

"I think it's a satellite," he called back to his wife. "It's too smooth to be a meteorite." He knelt down beside it. It was about three feet in diameter. He carefully touched it, first holding his fingers close to the satellite's surface and then touching it. It was cool to the touch.

Thinking that if it was a satellite, there would be some sort of markings on it, Jonathan tried to turn it over. It was heavy.

Martha came forward and they both tugged on the sphere to try and move it. After a moment of tugging and pulling, the sphere seemed to crack open and a light came from inside.

Johanthon and Martha both looked inside. What was inside looked back.

After their initial shock of surprise, they both looked inside the sphere again. There was a baby girl inside the satellite. Her maternal instincts kicked in and Martha instantly fell in love with the child. She couldn't explain how a baby got inside a satellite, but she know that her wish for a baby had come true.

* * *

What the Kent's didn't know was that the "satellite" was actually a Kryptonian birthing matrix. A sort of artificial womb, the birthing matrix was used by the advanced inhabitants of Krypton to mix genetic samples together and create new life. The people of Krypton had long ago given up on the more natural, but less predictable, forms of procreation.

Krypton was a large planet, nearly three times the size of Earth. It orbited a sun that was classified in Earth astronomer's stellar catalogs as HR 7703 A, a K2 red star.

The solar system of HR 7703 A, called Prime by the inhabitants of Krypton, was similar to that of Sol, Earth's star, but with one difference. Instead of nine planets with relatively stable orbits, Prime has a system of 11 planets, two of which were in highly erratic and unstable orbits. One of these planets occupied an orbit similar to that of Sol's comets, reaching far into the interstellar vastness before heading back near Prime every several thousand years.

During each of its previous passes through the HR 7703 A system, the planet, called Ochoa, caused massive tidal waves and created fluctuations in the other planets' orbits. It's most recent pass brought it into a position where it would pass dangerously close to Krypton. As advanced as they were, the people of Krypton could do nothing to prevent Ochoa from following its preordained path.

Over the thousands of years in which Kryptonian civilization had advanced, the people had become more dependent upon the technology. On a heavy gravity world such as theirs, physical labor was best left to machines.

With smart computers and robots to do all the real work, two classes of people formed. One class devoted itself to artistic endeavors and the pursuit of personal knowledge. The other class sought to escape the drudgery of life by spending most of their time in the interactive artificial realities created by the computers. Over time, the population fell as individuals spent more and more time in isolation. Eventually, it became a cultural taboo to permit physical contact of any type between individuals. All communications was via a virtual reality computer connection.

Due to the general apathy of the people, all but a privileged few were totally unaware of the impending doom.

Jor-El, one of those privileged few, was one of Krypton's most talented genetics artists. He believed that the people of Krypton should not just perish. In heated debates via his virtual computer link, he argued for the construction of a space ark to send a select few thousand people to safety. Those few that agreed with him were not powerful enough, either singly or collectively, to provide the means to do so.

By himself, with only the help of his personal robot attendants and the knowledge stored in Krypton's computer network, Jor-El retrofitted a birthing matrix with a hyperspace propulsion system and programmed it to seek out a planet that was compatible with Kryptonian life. There were several possible planets near by, including one called Earth.

Earth was Jor-El's first choice. Although the people of Earth were far less advanced than those of Krypton, they were similar in appearance. The people of Earth had the same basic biped structure as those of Krypton, but had a different biochemistry. Life on Earth as was based on carbon compounds, that on Krypton was based on silicon compounds.

The difference in biochemistry notwithstanding, Jor-El calculated that the chances of survival was greatest for the child that would emerge from the birthing matrix if the child liked similar to those of the planet the matrix went to. Silicon and its various compounds were common enough in the universe that the child should be able to survive.

Just days before the gravitational forces of Ochoa's passing caused Krypton's tectonic activity to increase to the point that the planet actually broke apart, Jor-El loaded a genetic sample into the birthing matrix and launched it toward Earth. The genetic sample was what he had available in his genetics laboratory. His latest project was for a woman named Lara; the sample was a mix of his DNA and hers.

The birthing matrix was not designed for the rigors of space travel. Although the birthing chamber itself was well shielded from the radiation of space, parts of the controlling computer system were not. The embryo had not yet reached the point where the computer system would inject hormones and enzymes to ensure that the resulting child was male when a single comic ray shorted out part of the computer, erasing the portion of the control program that would determine the child's sex.

This action prevented the computer from interfering in the natural process the growing embryo would go through. For the first time in thousands of years, a Kryptonian child would not have it's genes manipulated.

* * *

The only person besides Clara's parents to know the truth about her was her best friend, Lana Lang. Clara and Lana had known each other since they met at the age of three at a church picnic.

Lana was the exact opposite of Clara. Clara was tall and slender, with hardly any bosom at all. Lana was shorter and although not exactly pudgy, she was ample in both bust and hip. Lana's long red hair and freckles were the exact contrast to Clara's short black hair and smooth skin.

Not only did the two friends look different, they also acted different. Clara was generally quiet while Lana was outgoing and sometimes considered loud. Lana was the school flirt, always preparing for the next date; Clara was the overgrown tomboy who never dated once in high school. Lana was a cheerleader all four years of high school. It was only at Lana's insistence that Clara needed something other than her farm chores to keep her busy, that Clara joined the girl's soccer team in her senior year.

Clara decided to tell her friend her secret only after graduation. The night of graduation was typical for a small midwestern town. The graduates and their families attended the ceremony in the school auditorium and then the kids spent the rest of the night partying.

Compared to the sort of trouble kids in big cities could get into, the types of parties in this part of rural Kansas were pretty tame. Just a keg or two of beer and lots of loud music.

For once, Clara actually tried to be more like her friend, but just couldn't seem to fit into that mold that the other girls did. While most of the kids spent the night drinking and making out, Clara spent most of the time sitting on the hood of her father's pickup truck, staring at the stars. Stargazing was a habit she had picked up from her father. Since the time of her father's tractor accident and the discovery of her true origin, she couldn't help wondering which of the stars in the sky was "home."

It was during that night of soul searching that Clara decided she needed to share her secret with someone outside her immediate family. The next morning she went to the Lang house. Lana was not up yet, it had been a big party. Her parents were already at work.

"Could you keep the noise down?" Lana said, finally answering the door. She was still in her outfit from the night before. "Come in."

"Sorry," Clara said. She wondered if now was the right time to tell her friend her secret. "Do you feel okay?"

Lana held her head in her hands as they both walked, slowly, down the hall to the kitchen. "Yeah, I'll be okay."

"That was some party."

"Yeah, it was," Lana tried to smile. "I just wish I could remember more of it." Lana poured a cup of coffee. She handed Clara a cup also.

Clara sat down opposite her friend and waited. She took several sips of the coffee. She only drank it to fit in with Lana, she really didn't care for the taste. Lana tried to drink from her cup. "Yow, that's still way too hot. How can you stand to drink it that hot?" Lana asked.

Clara sit the cup down. She often forgot that she didn't feel things like heat and cold the way everyone else did. The coffee hadn't seemed hot to her. She looked at her friend and shrugged.

Lana sat with her elbows resting on the table and her head in her hands. "Don't you have a headache too? I'll bet everyone in town is hungover after last night."

"No, I don't seem to have a headache," Clara admitted. But then, she thought to herself, I've never had a headache.

"Come on now," Lana said. "Everyone at the party was drinking. I saw you drinking just as much as I was...well, almost as much. You have to feel something."

"I...I guess beer just doesn't affect me the same way," Clara said. I have to do this, she told herself. "I'm different than you are."

Lana didn't look up.

"Did you hear me?" Clara asked. "I'm different than you."

"I heard you. It just hurts to talk. Different how?"

"Well, I think it'd be easier to show than explain."

Clara took her friend's hand and lead her outside. They walked through the back door and out to the Lang's garage. Clara let go of Lana's hand and quickly pulled down the garage door.

Clara moved to the front of Lana's car.

Lana was standing on the steps to the kitchen, looking at the strange way her friend was acting.

"Watch," Clara said.

Clara reached down and put her hands under the front bumper. She then lifted the car up. She continued lifting until the front hood of the car was almost to the ceiling of garage.

Lana stood there, unable to say anything. Her head was pounding from the hangover and her best friend, the girl that was like a sister to her, was doing circus strongman tricks with her car.

Clara put down the car. "Well," she said, "I'm...different."

Lana finally found her voice. "Clara, you're some sort of... some sort of super woman."

"Lana, you're my best friend. You have to keep this a secret. Just between us."

"Yeah, okay," Lana said as she sat down on the steps and laid her head in her hands.

Clara helped her friend back into the house and they spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee and talking about the things Clara could do and what their plans were now that they were out of high school.

* * *

### Part Two

"Hello," Clara said. "I believe I have an appointment with Mr. White. Mr. Perry White."

The receptionist looked at the appointment book on her desk. "And you are?"

"Oh, sorry. Clara Kent." Clara pushed the glasses she wore up with her forefinger. Lana had suggested that she wear them to make her look "more reporter-ish."

"Yes, Miss Kent. You have an ten o'clock appointment. Mr. White is running just a little late. If you'd like to have a seat."

Clara sat down and tried not to look too nervous. She sat quietly for several seconds, although they felt like hours. She then glanced down at the coffee table in front of her. Copies of the Daily Planet and Newstime were scattered on the table.

Clara looked around. The receptionist was busy attending to some filing. No one else was in the reception room. Clara picked up one of the Newstime issues and tried to casually browse through it.

The cover story of the magazine was titled "Young Turks: the Remaking of American Business." Clara studied the three photographs on the cover. One was of Lex Luthor II. Having spent the last four years attending the university in Metropolis, Clara knew all about the young Mr. Luthor's attempts to take over and run his late father's vast conglomerate of businesses.

The other two faces were less familiar to her. One was of Bill Gates. The paragraph below the picture said that he was the president of Microsoft, a computer software firm and was worth over three billion dollars. Clara thought he looked like one of the computer geeks that were always bugging her when she tried to use the MSU Computer Center.

The last face of the cover was the most intriguing. Bruce Wayne, the caption read. Funny, Clara thought, he looks familiar.

She quickly opened the magazine to the story and began reading. She scanned up and down the pages for Wayne's name. She intently read the short biography. Unlike Mr. Gates, Mr. Wayne's billions were inherited. The article stated that the young heir had until recently spent most of this time travelling, living off a sizable trust fund. With little business experience at all, he had, at the age of 25, assumed the vast manufacturing and shipping empire left to him by his late father. A side bar article restated the tragic story of how his parents had been gunned down on a busy Gotham City street over fifteen years earlier.

Something has to be done about street crime, Clara thought. She looked at the cover again. She still thought she recognized Bruce Wayne from somewhere. Her memory, although not what you would call "photographic," was, nonetheless, very good. She prided herself on never forgetting a face or a voice. It was a talent she assumed would come in handy as a reporter.

Just when she was on the verge of remembering where she had met Bruce Wayne, the receptionist called her name.

"Yes," Clara said, putting down the magazine.

"Mr. White can see you now." The receptionist was on her feet and held her hand out to indicate that Clara should follow her.

The receptionist lead Clara through a typical news room bullpen and into a small office. The man behind the desk was middle aged with greying temples. He looked like a man with way too much stress in his life. He was busy marking up a mockup of the Newstime cover.

"Cindy, give this to production," he said, handing the markup to the receptionist. Turning his attention to Clara, he motioned for her to sit down. "Your name is Clara Kent." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, sir."

"You just graduated from Metropolis State University with a major in Journalism and a double minor in English and Criminology. Interesting combination."

"I was thinking of specializing in crime reporting," Clara said. Just then, it hit her. She had met Bruce Wayne at a criminology seminar. Why was an aspiring businessman interested in criminology? she wondered.

"You also won the Robert Kennedy Student Journalism award. Twice."

"Yes, sir."

"I've only met one other person that's won that award. Once. Name of Lois Lane. Hired her two years ago. She's my best reporter."

"Yes, sir," Clara replied again. Get a grip, she told herself. This interview is going nowhere. "Uh, sir, Mr. White, if I could, I have some samples of my work. From the student newspaper. If you'd like to read them...?"

"Probably already have," White replied. "I try and keep on top of the best in the field. Anyone that wins the Kennedy twice deserves my attention. One of the office boys stops over at MSU every week and brings me the 'Bugle.'"

"Uh, yes, sir."

White leaned back in his chair. He tone changed. "But that doesn't mean a free ride around here. Or at any other magazine or newspaper for that matter. What matters around here is that you can get stories that no one else can."

White paused. He looked Clara right in the eyes. She wanted to say something, but couldn't.

"You think you can do that? Get me a story that no one else can?"

"Well, yes, sir. I think I can. No, I know I can." Clara tried to save the interview by being as positive as possible.

"Good," White said. "Bring me a story no one else can get in one week and you're hired. On a probationary basis, of course. I wouldn't want that one story to be a fluke." With that, White turned his attention back to the piles of papers on his desk.

"Well, yes, thank you sir," Clara stammered. "Thank you for your time, I really appreciate you taking time out of your busy day..."

Without looking up, White said, "Go, kid, that story's not going to wait!"

Clara got up and rushed out of Perry White's office so fast that she didn't see where she was going. She ran right into a young woman walking though the bullpen. The force of the impact knocked the woman flat on the floor.

"Ohmygod," Clara exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going. Are you okay."

The woman looked up at Clara's offered hand. "You play hockey for the Metropolis Marvels?" she asked, rubbing her shoulder. "That was one hell of a body slam."

"I'm really, really sorry. I wasn't thinking about what I was doing," Clara apologized as she helped the woman up. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Mr. White does that to almost everyone here. Don't think anything about it." The woman smiled at Clara to emphasize that everything was okay. "Lois Lane," she said, offering her hand.

"Clara Kent." Clara shook Ms. Lane's hand.

"Interview?" Lois asked.

"Yes."

"Right out of journalism school, right?"

"Uh, yes." Clara seemed a little annoyed. She didn't think she looked like that much of a novice.

"He give you the old 'Bring me a story in a week' deal?" Lois asked, smiling.

"Yes," Clara admitted.

"He hooked me with that one too." Lois chuckled. "Look, Clara, it's kind of quiet around here today. What do you say, we go get an early lunch and I'll tell you how to handle Perry."

"Sure," Clara agreed. She decided right then and there that she liked Lois Lane. Heck, Clara thought, if I was a guy, she'd probably be just what I'd be looking for.

* * *

That night, Clara filled Lana in on her day. The two friends had shared first a dorm room and then an apartment during school. They had both decided to stay in Metropolis to start their careers, so they continued to share the apartment.

"Sounds kind of fishy to me," Lana said. They were in the kitchen. Lana was washing paint from her hands. An artist, Lana had been working on a portrait most of the day.

"Not really," Clara defended Mr. White's offer. "Being a reporter is a tough job. Newspapers and magazines typically run with a very low profit margin. He can't just up and hire anyone without making sure they can bring in the stories."

"Okay, so what's your story going to be?"

"I don't know," Clara admitted.

Lana finished drying her hands and picked up a stack of newspapers. She always kept stacks of newspapers around to cover the floor when she was painting. "Maybe one of these will give you an idea."

"Lana, I need to come up with an original story."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But maybe one of these will give you an idea." Lana flipped through the newspapers. "Look, here's one. 'Gotham Ripper Still At Large'." She showed it to her friend.

"That's from a week ago. That's old news."

"But it still isn't solved. The Ripper still hasn't been caught." Lana looked at her friend. "With your...abilities...you could catch this guy and get a great story as well."

Clara thought back to the article about Bruce Wayne, about how he had lost his parents at such an early age. "You're right, Lana, there is a lot of crime. But I just don't know. If I want to be a good reporter, I shouldn't rely on my 'abilities' as you put it."

"Hey, as far as I know, you were given your powers for a reason. You should use them. Do you think it would have been right for Einstein not to have thought about physics? Or Beethoven not to have written music? They had talents that benefitted the world. So do you!"

"Okay, I'll think about it," Clara said.

* * *

After her father's accident and Clara's discovery of her true origins, the Kent's had often talked to their daughter about her powers and encouraged her to accept the responsibility she had.

Clara had often thought about how to use her various powers for good, but most of the ideas she thought of would have meant exposing herself to the public. She could have become a police officer, but would have to tell everyone about her abilities. Likewise with any other job she could think of.

Her mother, during a very emotional talk, had told her about her father's fear that the government would take Clara away if they ever discovered the truth. Clara decided, and her parent's agreed, that she should always keep her origin and her powers a secret.

Now, Lana was suggesting that she use her powers. Lana had a strong argument. There was a lot of crime; America's cities were being torn apart by the urban violence of gangs. Everyday on television and in newspapers, Clara saw or read about missing children, murder victims, and the suffering caused by civil war overseas. She wondered if her personal feelings mattered when balanced against all that.

It was another sleepless night for Clara. She sat on the fire escape outside the apartment and watched the stars. The haze that hung over Metropolis filtered out much of the star light, but Clara's eyes were sensitive to light of a much broader spectrum. She could still see the stars, even under cloud cover.

As the sun arose over Metropolis Harbor and Clara felt the energizing warmth of the sun's rays strike her face, she made her decision. She would travel to Gotham City and do her story on the Ripper. Even if she didn't catch the killer, she could still work the story into a piece about the impact senseless crime had on today's society.

* * *

The phone on Lois Lane's desk rang. "Lane," she said, answering it.

"Uh, hi, Lois, this is Clara Kent. We met yesterday."

"Yeah," Lois said, "My shoulder still hurts. Of course I remember you."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you. I'm sure you're busy..."

"Hey, never too busy for a fellow female journalist. What can I do for you?" Lois asked.

"I've decided to take Mr. White up on his offer. I think I've got a good story idea," Clara started to explain.

"So what's the problem?" Lois asked.

"I'm not sure that my student press pass will cut it where I'm headed. Any suggestions?"

"I could probably scrounge up a Newstime pass for you to use," Lois said. "Just don't tell anyone."

"Sure," Clara said. "That's really great of you. Should I stop by sometime this afternoon to pick it up?"

"I've got a better idea," Lois said. "My little sister is about your age. She just graduated from college too. She's coming to visit with me over the summer. We're going to have a 'no men allowed' old-fashioned pajama party. Why don't you join us?"

"Well, I had plans to have dinner with my roommate."

"Is your roommate a woman?" Lois asked.

"Uh, yeah."

"Then invite her along."

* * *

Lois lived in a small walkup apartment not far from the Daily Planet building. Although she was quickly making a reputation for herself with Newstime, her salary still wasn't what she needed to afford a better apartment. But then, with all the travel, who needed a big, fancy apartment anyway? Lois told herself.

Lana and Clara arrived at about eight o'clock. Lois opened the door and invited them in.

"This is my best friend, and roommate, Lana Lang," Clara told Lois.

"And the brat in the kitchen is my sister, Lucy," Lois said.

A blonde head stuck out from behind the kitchen door. "I'm not a brat!"

"Well, you used to be," Lois kidded.

Lucy Lane was the same height as her sister, but instead of shoulder length brown hair like Lois', she had short blonde hair. Her hair was almost as short as Clara's.

Lucy and Lois were already in pajamas and there was a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of the couch. The smell of coffee came from the kitchen. "Make yourselves at home, girls," Lois said. "You can change in the bedroom, if you like. If not, the bathroom's right next to it." Lois pointed to the hallway on the other side of the kitchen.

After Lana and Clara changed, all four women sat in the living room. Lucy and Clara sat on the floor at either end of the coffee table and Lana and Lois sat on the couch. There was a stack of videos on the top of the television.

"Okay," Lois said. "The ground rules are: No men tonight. Anything else goes. We've got sappy movies to watch, food to eat, and since it's Friday, none of us has to be to work early tomorrow. What more would a woman want?"

"Can we talk about men?" Lucy asked.

"As long as our discussions have no socially redeeming value," Lois answered. As the oldest person in the room, she seemed to take the lead.

"Great!" Lucy said. "Tell us about those hunks you interviewed last week."

"What hunks?" Lana demanded.

"Oh, it was nothing really..." Lois said, grinning.

"Only the three richest and hunkiest men in America," Lucy said.

"Well, richest, maybe. But Bill Gates was not a hunk," Lois said.

"We're talking about your article in Newstime, right?" Clara asked.

"Yeah," Lois answered.

"I read it while I was waiting yesterday for my interview. It was very good."

"Enough about my sister's article," Lucy said. "Tell us about the guys. Is Bruce Wayne as gorgeous in person as he was in that picture?"

Lois smiled. "Yeah, he was my favorite. Lex Jr. was a big bore and Bill Gates was a total nerd. He got mad at me because I didn't know as much about computers as he did. But Bruce Wayne was not only a hunk, but a nice guy too. He actually took me to lunch. Chauffeured limo and the whole bit."

"Wow," both Lucy and Lana said simultaneously. They looked at each other and giggled like schoolgirls.

"And..." Lois continued. "He held my arm when we walked into the restaurant. You can't tell it with the expensive suits he wears, but from what I felt of his arm, the guy works out. I'm talking seriously buff."

"He seemed to have a rough childhood," Clara noted. "Your article talked about how his parents were killed."

Lana looked at her friend. "Lighten up, Clara, we're talking major hunks here! Not depressing stuff." She looked at both Lois and Lucy. "You'll have to forgive my friend. She's still something of a tomboy. Grew up on a farm and all."

"Oh, that's right," Lois said. "You're both from Kansas." A slight pause. "Kansas, where men are men and sheep are nervous."

Lana laughed. "Actually, you're thinking of Montana."

"Oh," Lois said.

"Yeah," Lana finished, trying to keep a straight face and failing. "In Kansas, it's the pigs that are nervous."

All four of the women giggled themselves breathless.

* * *

The first thing Clara did when she got to Gotham City was to check the morgue at the Gotham City Bugle. The "morgue" at a newspaper was where all the back issues were kept for reporters to do research. Clara spent almost six hours pouring over the earlier stories about the "Gotham Ripper."

Like the infamous London serial killer of a century earlier, the Gotham Ripper was preying upon prostitutes. The killings had been going on now for almost three months, with a total of six women killed.

When she got to her hotel room, Clara first put on her pajamas and then turned on the television. She wanted to catch the local news to see if anything new had come up about the Ripper during the day. She then carefully laid out her notes on the bed and studied them. She took a tourist map of Gotham and carefully marked where each body was found. The articles stated that although the bodies had been found all over the city, police believed that most, if not all, of the women had last been seen in the section of Gotham called the East End.

Next, Clara marked the dates the bodies were found on a calendar. Almost exactly two weeks apiece, each and every one. Each of the murders had occurred not less than 13 days apart and not more than 15. Given the fact that a body might go undetected for a day or so, it was a sure bet that the murders were happening every two weeks. Why would the killer strike exactly two weeks apart? Clara wondered.

She reread her notes from the newspaper reports of the murders. When reporters had questioned police officials about the murders, Gotham City Police Commissioner Gordon had the standard reply: "We have found certain patterns to the killer's MO and are following up on all leads." When asked if there was any connection between the killings and the sightings of a masked man prowling the city's rooftops, Gordon had replied: "No comment."

Certain patterns, Clara thought. So the police have the same idea that I do. Maybe the murderer is a pilot or fisherman, someone that has a layover in Gotham every two weeks.

Clara thought about what her next step would be. Maybe talk to some of the Bugle reporters on the crime beat, she thought. And maybe check the airlines, shipping companies, and commercial fishing boats. But then, the police have probably already tried that, she told herself.

The only item of interest on the late news was a brief interview with Bruce Wayne. A financial reporter was asking him about his latest business venture, a software company to compete against Microsoft. As Clara watched the story and listened to Wayne talk, she decided that maybe Lois and Lana were right. His is a hunk, she thought.

She was just about ready to turn in for the night when another thought occurred to her. She jumped out of the bed and grabbed the calendar. She counted the days since the last murder. Fourteen. She counted them again. Tonight is the night! she thought.

Clara quickly dressed and tried to plan her course of action. She opened the hotel window and looked out. The sun had just set to the west and the sky was streaked with orange and red. She thought about climbing out onto the fire escape and flying to the East End, but just then a police helicopter flew overhead. She figured that flying was too risky. She decided to take a cab instead.

The cabby was an older man, maybe of Indian decent. Being from a small Kansas town where nearly everyone was white, Clara still had trouble deciphering were people were from just by their accents. He didn't seem too happy about a "nice young woman like you" wanting to go to the East End. "Nothing but trouble down there," he said.

"I'm a reporter," Clara told him. She liked the sound of that. She showed him her Newstime press pass.

"Well, okay, but you be careful now, okay?"

"Don't worry," she told the cabby, "I'm a lot tougher than I look."

On the off chance that she was spotted by someone that might remember her, Clara put on a heavy pair of wrap-around sunglasses. It seemed odd to wear sunglasses at night, but to Clara's eyes there was little difference. The dark plastic might filter out light visible to a pair of human eyes, but did little to filter out the broad spectrum of light to which her eyes were sensitive.

She wore a pair of jeans, a tee-shirt, and a light red jacket, but felt overdressed. Gotham was in the middle of an early June heat wave and the rest of the people on the streets of the East End were wearing far less than she was. Not that the heat bothered her.

Clara walked up and down the streets of the East End, trying to look like she belonged. She was propositioned numerous times and pretended to ignore the men that were doing it. In reality, she was scanning each and every one of them for a knife. To her surprise, most everyone on the street was armed in some manner. Most of the weapons were small, easily concealed handguns.

As she walked through the neighborhoods of the East End, the other thing that Clara tried to sort out in her mind was the attraction people had to sex. Everywhere she looked, there were woman selling their bodies, pornographic magazines and videos were being sold, and flashing neon signs advertised live sex shows.

Lana had often tried to explain what sex was like to Clara, but Clara just couldn't seem to grasp it, just as Lana couldn't seem to understand her friend's point of view. Having grown up on a farm, Clara was acquainted with the notion of sex for procreation, but she just didn't have the urges that seemed to so torment and drive the other people around her.

When Clara was about ten, her mother had sat her down and they had "The Talk." A couple of years later, when certain changes hadn't of begun happening yet, they had "The Talk, Part Two," in which Martha Kent explained to her daughter that everyone was different and some things just happened later to some girls.

After her father's accident with the tractor, and when Clara's menses still had not appeared, Clara had her mother had another talk. This talk was a little different than the two previous. Her mother explained that because of the danger of exposing Clara's origin, they couldn't take her to the doctor. Since she was otherwise healthy, the Kent's assumed that their adopted daughter was from a race of beings with completely different reproductive systems.

Jonathan Kent had taken several organic chemistry courses in agriculture school, as well as numerous courses dealing with farm animal breeding. After much thought on the matter, he told his wife and daughter that he thought that Clara's people must be like some livestock, in that they don't become fertile unless they are around others of their kind. Since there were no other babies found in spaceships, at least not that they knew, Clara was alone in this world.

And now, as she stood alone in the midst of a crowd, Clara felt more lonely than ever. Only the prospect of landing a job-winning story and possibly stopping a mass murderer kept her from heading back to the hotel room and a night of star grazing and soul searching.

Clara stopped on one street corner for a moment and watched the traffic. Since the bodies were discovered all over the city, she reasoned that the killer was driving a car and drove his victims to the murder scenes. She decided to spend more time watching the traffic.

As she walked past the porn theater for what seemed like the tenth time, she watched one of the women across the street. She had seen the woman off and on all night. Although it was hard to tell the woman's age, Clara guessed that the woman was her age. What struck Clara as peculiar about the woman was that she seemed more interesting in feeding the stray alley cats than in "working."

Clara crossed the street and tried to start up a conversation with the woman. The most that she was able to get out of her was that the woman didn't want to talk.

About that time, a car pulled over and the hooker walked toward it. Clara stepped forward just a few steps to get a better look of the driver. In that time, the woman talked with the man and apparently they decided on a price. The woman got in the car. Clara wondered if the woman was going with this man only because the woman wanted to get away from her. Clara stepped forward the car. She could hear the man ask if the woman wanted to bring her friend along.

"She's not my friend," the woman replied. "If she doesn't start minding her own business, I'll scratch out her eyes."

"Too bad," the man said. "She's got nice legs."

As the car pulled away from the curb, Clara focused on the driver. She could just make out a faint image of what appeared to be a knife in the man's jacket pocket. It was hard to tell with all the other metal of the car's frame and body blocking her view. Clara got a bad feeling about this.

Maybe it was the fact that the woman seemed so kind to the cats, but Clara didn't want to think that this woman was going to be the next victim.

Just then, another car pulled into traffic behind the car the hooker was in. This car was a black sports car. Clara didn't know that much about cars to tell what model. The odd thing about the car, other than the fact that it had cut off two other cars to fit in behind the car the hooker had just gotten into, was that all the windows were darkened.

Clara focused on this other car and saw the driver. The darkened windshield didn't stop her vision. The driver was wearing a hood and mask. Something is definitely not right here, Clara told herself.

She looked around and decided there were too many people on the street for her to do anything. She ran up the block, trying to follow the two cars. They both turned right before she could make the corner. She decided to cut down the alley.

Clara scanned the alley. She saw only one wino sleeping behind a dumpster. No one else was in sight. With a quick glance to both ends of the alley, she decided to make her move. With a light jump, Clara was in the air. It was like the leap a ballerina might make with her arms up and her toes pointed. Only, unlike the ballerina, Clara never came down. She continued upward and over the buildings.

She slowed down at the rooftop and looked around. There was no sign of the police helicopters, so she continued upward. The buildings in this part of town were mostly three and four stories, so she was able to fly high enough to keep track of the cars while hopefully staying lower than the helicopters.

The first car was headed up a side street that lead to the old deserted warehouse district. The second car was right behind it. As the traffic on the side street cleared up, the second car backed away just a bit to avoid following too close. Clara figured this guy knew what he was doing and had trailed cars before. Was he a cop? she wondered. Not wearing a hood and mask, she decided. Was there more than one killer? she wondered. Maybe they worked as a team.

Clara followed the cars for several minutes. Although flight was the last power she had mastered and still didn't feel really comfortable doing it, this was easy.

The deserted warehouses were on the other side of a large rail yard, far away from any other activity. The first car pulled into the space between two old warehouses. The warehouses were large buildings, covering entire city blocks and each was over five stories tall. The dark space between them provided the privacy required for a quick liaison with a hooker. It was also the perfect place for murder.

The second car pulled up outside the warehouse, but didn't pull into the space between them. From her height, Clara could see the hooded man get out of the second car. Out of the car, she could see that not only was he wearing a hood and mask, but he was also wearing a cape. As he slide into the shadows, the black cape cloaked him and he became almost invisible. Were it not for the faint image of metallic objects like his belt buckle, Clara might have missed him. She wondered if the cape was somehow masking his infrared "glow."

Clara landed on the top of the warehouse. She quietly moved to the edge of the building and peered down into the darkness between the buildings. The first car was just sitting there. She could hear voices, but wasn't able to make out what the two were saying.

The hooded man was nowhere to be seen. Clara scanned the shadows for him, but didn't see him. Just then, her attention was drawn back to the car by a scream. She saw the hooker race from the car and the man followed her. Clara could clearly see the knife in his hand and was about to jump over the edge of the building to stop him when the hooded man came out of the shadows and brought the other man down with a flying tackle.

As the two men fought, Clara flew down to the ground and ran after the woman. The hooker was fast and by the time Clara reached the opening between the two buildings, the woman was already past the hooded man's car. She's safe for now, Clara thought and turned back to the fighting men. The first man was headed right toward her.

Both men looked at her in surprise as they ran toward her. There was a split second when Clara had a good look at the hooded man. The hood had pointed "ears" on the top of each side and the mask covered all of the man's face but his mouth and chin. His costume was mostly black leather, but Clara's vision reveled that there was something else sewn into parts of the costume. Dense areas covered the man's chest, forearms, and shins. Armor, Clara realised.

Her vision also reveled something else. The face behind the mask was that of Bruce Wayne.

Just as the first man, the killer, reached her, Clara put out her arm to stop him. He ducked under her arm and slashed her midsection with the knife. Clara felt the knife cut through her jacket and tee-shirt, but it didn't penetrate her skin. She kicked out with her left foot and struck the man with her other hand. He fell facedown in the dirt, unconscious from the blow. The knife, one like that used by fishermen, fell from the man's hand.

By then, the hooded man reached her. "Back away, miss," he ordered. Although disguised, Clara recognized the voice. It was the same Bruce Wayne that Clara had heard on the television earlier in the evening.

The hooded man, Bruce Wayne, reached into one of the pockets attached to his belt and took out a short piece of plastic. He twisted it about the killer's hands and tied it tight. He turned to look at Clara and noticed the cut in her clothes.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine. I'm a lot tougher than I look," she said, for the second time that night. "Is he the Ripper?"

"I believe so," the hooded man said. His costume made him look like a giant bat. He hurried out of the opening between the buildings and looked for the hooker.

"She's okay," Clara said, coming up behind him. "She's trying to hide over there by the fence."

"You can see her all the way over there?" The hooded man turned and looked at Clara. She could see the surprise on his face from under the mask.

"Yes," Clara said. "Just like I can see that you're Bruce Wayne."

He recovered quickly, but Clara could tell by the look on his face and his change in posture that she was right.

"You must be mistaken, young lady."

"Then what is your name?"

He turned and walked quickly to his car. "They call me Batman," he said, looked at Clara one last time before stepping into the car.

Clara made a split second decision. She decided that this man was a hero, just like what Lana was trying to talk her into becoming. She floated into the air a few feet off the ground. Batman, or rather Bruce Wayne, as Clara reminded herself, wasn't as surprised about that as he had been when she'd guessed who he was. He stood, one foot in the car, one on the ground, his gloved hands resting on the top of the car door.

She floated forward until she was directly above the hood of his car. "Don't worry, Mr. Wayne. I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

He didn't say anything, but Clara saw those sharp, dark eyes that Lois had so admired look directly into hers. The look only lasted a moment. And then he finished stepping into the car, started it, and drove off.

Police sirens were beginning to fill the air. Clara decided it was time to leave. She looked at the Ripper one last time. He was still laying on the ground, unconscious. She looked for the hooker, but couldn't see her. I hope the cat woman is going to be okay, Clara thought to herself.

* * *

She decided to fly home from Gotham City and file the story immediately, so that she would be the first to have it. When she got to Metropolis, it was almost three o'clock in the morning. Perry White was not in the building, and besides, the story was fresh. By the time it made it into the next issue of Newstime, it would be old news.

Instead, Clara spent nearly twenty minutes trying to convince the Daily Planet assistant national editor to hold the presses and reformat part of the front page for her story. She told them about Mr. White's proposal to her. The city editor called a friend in Gotham and confirmed that the police did indeed just arrest a suspect in the Ripper killings.

The front page of the morning edition of the Daily Planet read "Gotham Ripper Caught." The byline read "Story by Clara Kent, Newstime reporter." Clara had left out some of the details, but still felt that it was a good story.

Clara sat on the floor outside Perry White's office until he showed up for work at seven o'clock. He seemed surprised to find the young woman waiting there. He was more surprised when he read the front page of the Planet Clara handed him.

All he said was, "Good work, kid. Your desk is over there."

* * *

### Part Three

It was Clara's first story meeting. As typically happens every Monday, with the current issue of the magazine going to press, the editorial staff and some of the writers get together to discuss ideas for the next issue.

The content of many of the articles for Newstime, such as the commentary and editorial columns are determined by the individual columnists. Other parts of the magazine, like the national and international news coverage, are dictated by the events in the world and nation that week. Only a small section of the magazine was under the discretion of the editorial staff.

Perry White, being the editor-in-chief, had called the meeting. Clara sat next to Lois, who was already in the conference room. A tall, muscular blonde young man walked in. He wore a tank top and shorts, with neon green sunglasses perched on this forehead. The outfit displayed his physique for all to see.

"Hey, Lois," the newcomer said, "How's life?"

"Fine, dude," Lois mimicked the blonde man's effected California accent.

"Who's the new babe?"

"This is Clara," Lois answered. "Clara, this is Jim Olson, a photographer for the Planet."

Jim Olson gave Clara a sign with his hand. Clara had remembered seeing it in movies about surfers. It was with the thumb and little finger extended, the other fingers curled under. It was supposed to mean "Hang loose," or something like that.

"So you're Clara?" Jim said. "Lois told me about you. You're the babe that can take on a linebacker nose to nose. What to arm wrestle?" Jim held out his hand, arm cocked, bicep muscle bulging. He was smiling broadly.

"No thanks," Clara said.

"Watch out, Jim, she could probably beat you with one hand tied behind her back," Lois warned him.

"I'd sure like to see her try," Olson said.

"Pursue your love life on your own time, Olson!" Perry White said as he stomped into the room and slammed the door. "I'm running late, so I'll make this quick. We've decided to step up the number of people covering the Pope's visit to Denver this week. You three are elected. Lois, no offense, but I want the woman's point of view. There are lots of issues like the church's position on abortion and female priests that need to be covered. I know you think that I'm being sexist by assigning this to you, a woman, but I've got no other choice. No one else is available on short notice and you're good." Lois didn't protest. White continued, "Clara, you're from somewhere out west, right?"

"Yes," Clara said. "My home town is only a couple of hours east of Denver."

"Good, you'll get the local's perspective on this whole deal. Olson here is on loan to us from the Planet. You ladies try and keep him out of trouble, will you?"

* * *

Less than six hours later, Lois, Jim Olson, and Clara were getting off an airplane in Denver. As they stood at the baggage claim waiting for Olson's luggage to be unloaded, Lois told Clara that she seemed to have already learned the first and most important lesson a reporter needed to know: pack light.

"Well, this was so quick, I didn't have time to pack a lot," Clara tried to justify the single carry on bag she carried.

"Quite hassling me, Lane," Jim said. "You know I've got too much camera equipment to carry it all. Oh, here it is." Jim stepped forward to gather his luggage from the conveyor belt. By the time he was done shouldering everything, he looked like a Japanese tourist.

"Let me help," Clara said, reaching for Jim's last piece of luggage. She grabbed the handle of a large aluminum camera case.

"Hey, babe, I bench press two hundred pounds and I can barely carry that thing. I'm going have the porter pull it on one of those carts."

"Nonsense," Clara said. "That'd just cost us money. And didn't Mr. White warn us about unnecessary expenses?" Clara picked up the case effortlessly and strode off toward the cab stand.

"How...?" Olson said, struggling to catch up.

Lois laughed, "She's a farm girl. You know, Jim. She grew up toting bales of hay and giant bags of seed. Real work, not that stuff you do in the gym."

With the large crowds of people streaming into Denver for World Youth Day and the Pope's visit, the airport was busy. The cab stand in front of the terminal was even busier. After an hour of waiting, the three reporters finally managed to get a taxi to take them into the city.

On the way in, the cabby mentioned that almost all of the hotels were full.

"I was afraid this would happen," Lois said. "Happens every time they put me on a story at the last minute."

"I've got an aunt that lives here," Clara offered. "Maybe she could put us up?"

After nearly four hours of trying to find a room, Lois was almost ready to take Clara up on her suggestion of staying with the aunt. The ladies finally found a single room in a rundown motel on East Colfax. Olson found a room in another small motel up the street.

Clara knew from her aunt that East Colfax Boulevard was the Denver equivalent of "the seedy part of town." Compared to Gotham's East End, Clara thought, this isn't so bad.

* * *

The rest of the week went by quickly. Clara managed to see her aunt one night for dinner and a nice chat. The rest of the time she and Lois and Jim stayed busy. There was the arrival of the Pope and President Clinton, as well as all the other events surrounding the event.

The final event on the schedule was the Mass at Cherry Creek State Park on Sunday. Being reporters, Lois, Jim, and Clara were seated within a fenced off area to the side of the platform where the pontiff would speak. They had arrived early and were glad of it. Hundreds of thousands of people arrived to hear John Paul's message that bright and sunny morning.

Although the sun didn't bother Clara, and in fact was quiet refreshing to her, she kept up appearances and drank almost as much water as Lois and Jim did. With the high altitude and warm weather, dehydration was a potential problem for everyone that day. The police and World Youth Day officials were recommending that everyone drink lots of water. Even then, Clara saw lots of people being carried off to makeshift medical facilities.

She didn't need the water to cool off like everyone else did, but drinking that much liquid had the same effect on her system as it did with everyone else. She took the time in line for the portable toilets to interview people about their impressions, good and bad, about the event.

Lois and Jim stayed near the reporter's area. Lois was reviewing her notes and Jim was trying his best to get last minute photos.

As John Paul started into the second hour of his sermon, Clara finally managed to get into one of the portable toilets. The long lines for the facilities was major complaint among the pilgrims and other faithful that attended the event.

Clara was walking back to the reporter's area, wondering how she could work the complaints into a short article. She saw another photographer almost as burdened down as Jim trying to get closer to the Pope's platform for some photos. Clara started to walk forward to help the man when she noticed that the man was pulling what looked to be a grenade from his film case.

Clara felt a tightening in her chest as she realized that somehow this man had gotten through the extensive security and was going to attempt to kill the pontiff.

Time seemed to come to a standstill for her. She glanced around. There were a few shouts beginning to come from others around the man as they saw what he was doing. There were no Secret Service agents or police nearby. Clara was wondering about the best course of action to take was when the man made the decision for her.

He quickly cocked his arm back and hurled the grenade at the Pope's podium. Without thinking, Clara launched herself into the air on an intercept course with the grenade.

Microseconds stretched to what felt like minutes. Dozens of thoughts rushed through Clara's mind as she flew to intercept the grenade. How had the man gotten through security? What if I miss and can't stop it before it explodes?

To Clara's eyes, the grenade didn't look right. It should have been "denser." Ceramics, she decided. It's one of those new ceramic weapons that LexCorp had developed. The ceramic materials were much cheaper than conventional metal and far more resistant to accidental detonation. They were also much easier to get through electronic security monitoring devices

In her mind's eye, Clara traced the trajectory of the grenade. The terrorist had a good arm. She figured that the grenade would land within three feet of the pontiff if she didn't stop it. She had to catch it and discard it before it got anywhere near the Pope. At the speed she was going, she won't be able to maneuver and have a second chance to catch it if she missed. She also couldn't aim lower for fear of striking the Pope herself.

At the last possible instant, Clara's hand reached the grenade. She wondered how long the fuse was. She remembered the war stories that her grandfather Clark had told about being in World War II. She knew from those stories that grenades came with different detonation times. And there are always some grenades that blow before they should.

As her fingers wrapped around the baseball-sized weapon, she decided the safest course of action was to cock her own arm and throw the grenade high into the air. It would explode, but shouldn't harm anyone. She did so, just as she noticed that John Paul was beginning to react to the shouting and the commotion in the press box.

As she flew over the top of the pavilion, Clara arched upward, but away from where she had thrown the grenade. Just then, it exploded. Over the rush of the air in her ears, the grenade seemed to explode with barely more than a loud pop.

Time began to resume it's normal course. The adrenalin rush that was causing her chest to tighten and her ears to pound was beginning to subside. She slowed down and hovered over the scene.

Far below, she could see Secret Service agents huddling around the pontiff, forcing him off the podium. Other police and Secret Service agents were moving to surround the terrorist. A few people, and then increasing numbers, were looking at her.

As she hovered five hundred feet above the makeshift platform, Clara could see the glint of sunlight off the television cameras as they were pointed upward. At her.

There was no way she could safely land and not be noticed. To do so would mean the end to her privacy and a life of her own. Clara had little choice but to fly away. The Secret Service would see to John Paul's safety and the would-be assassin was already being forced to the ground by the police.

* * *

Clara didn't know what to do. She wasn't sure how many people saw her fly out of the reporter's area and who might have recognized her. She knew that she had done the right thing, but was beginning to wonder what the consequences for herself would be.

She decided that the best thing to do would be to return home. Her parents would know what to do.

Clara was unfamiliar with Denver, everything looked different from a thousand feet up in the air. She headed north. Far to her right was the airport and further out on the plains, she could make out the new airport under construction. Colfax was a major street in Denver and she knew basically the route that the cab ride had brought them from the airport.

She flew lower and eventually spotted the motel she and Lois were staying in. She landed in an alley behind the motel and hurried to her room. It was then that she realized that she had left most of her stuff with Lois. Her purse and reporter's notes were in the backpack next to Lois' chair. Clara was about to give in to defeat when she remembered that she was carrying the motel room key in her pocket. I guess it pays to be a tomboy, she thought.

Clara sat in the room for a moment and tried to collect her thoughts. If I go home, I need an excuse, she told herself. She didn't like lying to anyone. Her parents had always told her to tell the truth. But then, they were basically lying themselves about her own existence. Sometimes you have to lie to protect people, she rationalized.

She picked up the phone and called the number in Metropolis for Newstime. Perry White was out of the office, but she left a message for him saying that she had gotten word that her father had suffered a heart attack and she needed to go home.

Clara then packed up the rest of her clothes and left the room. She told the motel clerk the same story and left the same message for Lois. She then paid her share of the motel bill out of the remainder of the Newstime expense money she had.

* * *

The flight home helped to clear her head. Flight was the last of her powers that Clara had mastered. Even then, she had to concentrate to do it. The effort of concentration and the rush of the air against her face and the roar of the air in her ears seemed to help Clara clear her mind of her worries.. She was sure that her parents would have an answer.

Growing up, they had often had the answers to the other dilemmas that plagued Clara. Even after Clara discovered her true origins and was learning to control and use her various powers, her mother and father always stood beside her and guided her with just the right ideals. When that didn't work, her grandfather Clark always knew the right thing to say.

As she flew across the Colorado-Kansas border and out over the Kansas countryside, Clara knew that everything was going to be alright.

* * *

"Ma! Pa!" Clara yelled as she landed in the backyard of the farm house. It was Sunday, around noon, so she figured her parents would be home.

"Clara!" her mother exclaimed, running out the kitchen door. "We didn't see it on television when it happened, but we've been watching the news since. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Ma."

Her father come out of the house. He had a proud look in his eyes and a grin on his face. "I'm proud of you, Clara," he said with a solemnness in his voice that belied the expression on his face.

"What are you doin' here?" Martha Kent asked. "I figured you'd still be in Denver, getting the story."

"Ma, I am the story." Clara pleaded. "If I had landed back at the Mass, there would have been a stampede of reporters. I know, I would have done the same thing to get a story like this. I just didn't know what to do. All my life, we've kept my secret in the family. You always warned me about not showing off my strength or telling people that I can see through walls."

Clara paused. Her parents looked at her with a mixture of pain and pleasure on their faces. "I know I did the right thing. The Secret Service and the police couldn't have stopped the grenade after it was thrown. But now, everyone in the world will know who, and what, I am."

"You haven't even seen the TV reports, honey," her mother told her. "They don't know."

"But how could they not know? There were hundreds of cameras focused on the Pope."

"That's just it, Clara," her father explained. "The cameras were on him, not you. The TV reporters didn't turn their cameras toward you until it was all over. That nice Miss Brown from CBS was explaining it just a moment ago. The Mass was so long, most of the stations had gone to a break. The rest were focused on the Pope's face. Until the Secret Service rushed him off the stage, no one watching the television seemed to know anything was going on. By the time they aimed their cameras at you, you were gone."

Clara walked into the house with her parents. They spent most of the rest of the day watching the television reports on the assassination attempt. Her parents were right: somehow, very few people actually saw her. If it weren't for the speck in the TV pictures, flying away from the scene, most people would have said they had imagined the whole thing.

Clara felt that some hand of fate had guided her that day. She explained to her parents that she felt that she had to use her powers in some way to help people, but that she was worried about exposing herself, and her family and friends, to the publicity.

Martha and Jonathan Kent understood their daughter's concern. They had lived with it themselves from the moment they first found her. They had shared the knowledge of their daughter's true origin and powers with only a few close family members. For so long, they had sheltered her and protected her, and shared her with only those few close friends and family. Now, they saw that they were on the verge of sharing her with the world.

* * *

It was nearly six o'clock in the evening on Monday when Clara got back to Metropolis, but she went directly to the Daily Planet building. She still wasn't sure about how Mr. White would accept her story about needing the time off to see her sick father. Her first big assignment, and she felt that she had blown it.

When she walked into the bull pen, Jim Olson sauntered up to her. "Babe, you missed all the excitement! I was about thirty feet from the terrorist. I would have seen the whole thing but I was facing the other way taking pictures of the pilgrims. What a bummer!"

"You didn't see it?" Clara asked.

"No," Olson admitted. "The biggest story of the year...no, the century... nay, maybe all time, and all I've got to account for it is a picture of a nun from France."

Lois walked up to Clara and Jim. "How's your dad?" she asked.

"He's fine, thanks," Clara said. She didn't want to look Lois in the eyes for fear of what she'd find there. She looked at Lois and Lois looked back, smiling.

"Good," Lois said and then turned away and went back to her desk.

Clara wasn't sure what the smile meant. Did Lois know it was her?

Clara walked into Mr. White's office. "I just wanted to apologize for running out like that," she said.

"Your pop going to be okay?" Perry White asked. "My dad had a bum ticker too, you know."

"He's going to be just fine, sir."

"Good. I understand you missed all the action."

"Yeah, I guess so," Clara admitted. She pushed her sunglasses up with a finger. The glasses she usually wore had fallen off when she had flown after the grenade and Clara still hadn't replaced them.

"Well, the articles you submitted were pretty good. I think we'll have to cut some of them to make more room for Lois' interview with the Pope, and her story on this 'Superwoman' that saved him. But still, you did good work."

"Gee, thanks."

* * *

Later that evening, as Clara left the Planet building, Lois ran to catch her. "I think we need to talk," she said.

"Okay," Clara said.

Lois steered Clara to her car. "I'll give you a ride home," Lois said.

When the two women got in the car, Lois turned to Clara. "I saw the whole thing."

Clara took off the sunglasses and looked at Lois.

"I talked to everyone from the television crews. Everyone else had their eyes on the Pope while he was giving his address. I just happened to be looking at the right place at the right time. I think you and I were the only ones that seemed to have spotted the terrorist. I watched you coming back from the toilets. I saw you look at him, and the next thing I know there's a grenade going off in the sky like fireworks and you're out of there."

Clara sat in the car, unable to think of a response.

"You're my friend, Clara. I'll keep your secret."

"Thanks."

When Lois pulled up in front of Clara's apartment, she offered to walk in with Clara. Lana was waiting inside. As Clara walked into the apartment, Lana gave her a big hug. "I'm so proud of you," Lana told her friend.

Lana then saw Lois and decided not to say anything more.

"It's okay, Lana," Clara said. "She knows."

"So, we're the only ones that know about you and your powers?" Lois asked.

"Yeah. Well, and my parents, of course. And some of the family, you know, my grandfather and uncle."

"Of course," Lois said.

"And there's this guy in Gotham City. If he's the least bit of the detective that I think he is, he's probably figured it out by now."

"A guy," Lana teased. "Is he cute?"

"Give me a break, Lana," Clara said.

"This guy in Gotham," Lois said, "Did he have anything to do with the Ripper case?"

"Well, yeah," Clara admitted. "He sort of solved it. I just helped. At the end."

"I thought there was something about that story that you were leaving out," Lois said.

"I sort of had to."

"Clara, look," Lana said. She held up a red and blue costume. "I made this while you were gone. What do you guys think?"

Clara and Lois studied the costume. It was like a spandex exercise leotard with long legs and long arms. The majority of the costume was a bright, almost neon blue, with red accents. A short red cape was attached at the shoulders. An irregular red and yellow pentagon was sewn on the front, with a stylized "S" in it.

"What does the 'S' stand for?" Lois asked.

"You can't guess?" Lana asked. "What did you call her in your story?"

"Superwoman?"

"Yeah," Lana said.

"I don't know about this," Clara said.

"Clara, I saw the way you reacted in Denver," Lois said. "There are going to be other times you're going to be placed in situations like that again. There is a never ending fight going on out there in the world. Crime, and corruption, and terrorism are threatening to tear this nation apart. You have the power and the strength to do something about it."

"That's what I've been telling her," Lana added. "But will she listen to her best friend? Noooo."

"Okay, okay," Clara said. She held up her hands in mock defeat. "When I stopped to see my folks, we had a long talk. We decided that I have to use my powers the way I best see fit. What I'm not sure about is this...this...costume." She looked at Lana and shrugged. "Could we make the 'S' just a little bit smaller? I don't think my chest is that big."

* * *

END


End file.
